reminds me of one of my favorite poems by my favorite author: Autoptic 8
Grief, do me no favors. I have grown my hair long,
as you bid me. I have learned to roll
a coin below my knuckles. I have written down now
years of dreams; much of my life has passed in writing
down these books of sleep. And so you see that I can
no longer turn only to what’s true
when I speak of my experience. Sainted men
wander in forests that have been set to rows.
And here, today, already I have found a stone
shaped like a day I passed in a life I can’t claim as my own.
The wind calls water what it wants to call it and passes
overhead. But water names wind from within,
as storms proceed in hinges, all through the captive
captive, captivated light. Therefore, I show my face boldly
in a portrait of my great-great-grandfather. In reply,
a deep breath in my lungs, and the room about me
actual as nothing can be actual. My hand is badly cut,
and I cannot say how long it has been bleeding.
And yes, I’m sorry, but that hardly matters now.
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